


the surgeon's service

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dreamlike, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Second Person, a ship surgeon's duties encompass many things, background orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26220553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: You borrowed Lt Irving's spyglass for the watch. He told you to never use it on the lower decks.(written for the terror exe flash fest)
Relationships: Dr Alexander McDonald/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	the surgeon's service

**Author's Note:**

> what a weird and delightful prompt: [**alexander macdonald/solomon tozer, crack, mystical elements, rimming**](https://twitter.com/terror_exe/status/1285306508692148224)

You remember neither waking nor walking the deck, but you find yourself at the top of the hatch, descending the ladder in time with twelve bells. At the foot of the ladder, you blink, turning your head this way and that. Where there is normally shadow, each passageway is brightly illuminated, but strangest of all:

You do not see another soul; though you hear the faint murmur of conversation and the beating heart of the engine below your feet. You glance toward officer country, but every cabin door is shut. You look to the fo’c’sle where empty hammocks are strung up like hams.

‘Odd _,_ ’ you murmur.

You feel a rumble in your pocket, strong enough that it tickles your skin. You shove your hand into your pocket, retrieving the spyglass.

It trembles as though encasing unseen machinery.

You remember Lt Irving warning you: _Don’t drop it._ Even stranger, he said, _Don’t use it on the lower decks._

With that, his face grew pale. His fingers tightly gripped the edges of the spyglass until you reminded him that it was just for the watch. _We’ll be above. Watching the ice_.

Freezing my cock and balls off while I’m at it, you thought dourly to yourself.

Holding the spyglass now, curiosity overcomes prudence. You extend it in your hand. It rattles enough that it shakes your entire palm. You hold it to your eye and…

You pull it away. That cannot be right. With a huff, you hold it to your eye again.

Through the spyglass, the deck becomes smoky and dark, lanterns swaying from their hooks. You walk toward the fo’c’sle where you find the men; all in various states of undress. Some dance languidly, their arms looped around each other like lovers. Other men sit on their sea chests, talking in low tones. Others do more than talk, faces buried against the other’s neck, hands prying at buttons and knotted kerchiefs.

Your cheeks burn, and you lower the spyglass. Though when it continues rumbling in your hand, you cannot help but continue deeper. Your feet carry you past Mr Diggle’s stove, through the fo’c’sle, toward the sickbay. You raise the spyglass again.

You nearly drop it when you see the surgeon, framed by the doorway, kneeling behind some faceless officer’s thighs, his fingers crooked up his arse, the man before him panting up a storm.

Yanking the spyglass from your face, you see nothing but the curtain drawn across the sickbay’s door.

It would be best to walk away, find your hammock, and sleep, forgetting this whole bizarre episode as nothing more than a feverish dream.

You walk into the sickbay instead. Glancing toward the empty chair where Dr MacDonald had been…assisting another man, you shakily raise the spyglass.

The chair is empty. You breathe a sigh of relief.

‘May I help you, sergeant?’

You wince, whipping your head around. There is no one behind you, but when you raise the spyglass, Dr MacDonald comes into view, standing terribly close to you.

Smiling, he wipes his hand on a cloth before gesturing at the empty table as though inviting you to sit.

‘There’s no need for reservations, sergeant.’ He’s lowered his voice, aware of the open doorway leading to the others. ‘It’s all quite natural, in fact.’

Feeling quite the fool, you hesitate a moment before climbing onto the table. You set the spyglass by your side and lie back, staring at the overhead. It’s safer this way with the room empty and bright. You don’t know what strange thing you might see should you look down. Not when you feel fingers at your waist, cool air on your belly, lips on your thigh, and —! MacDonald uses his tongue, lapping against and into you, probing with practiced ease. The shame of it (the pleasure of it) is nearly great enough for you to shut your thighs and leave.

You come from his fingers and tongue alone, your cock untouched. Your thighs quiver as they fall open even more, but MacDonald is kind. He uses a warm, damp cloth to clean you, and he makes no comment of the stray tears that slipped from your eyes.

He pats your shoulder. ‘You’re all done,’ he says. ‘Best get some rest now.’

You lift your head to find yourself alone. Your trousers are buttoned, no visible sign of your spilling. Neither patient nor Dr MacDonald is with you in the sickbay. Feeling unsteady on your feet, you pocket the spyglass — no longer does it rumble — and hurry to your hammock, unsure what morning will bring.


End file.
